


Unfortunate Apology

by GizmoTrinket



Series: BBC Sherlock Ficlits Based on OTP Prompts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Birthday, Bisexual John Watson, Clueless Sherlock, Crack, For Science!, Friendship, Gen, Humor, I Blame Tumblr, John's an Idiot, Language, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, No Sex, POV John Watson, Pining John, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Prompt Fic, gross but funny, this shouldn't be this funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's John's birthday and Sherlock's been hiding after the latest experiment went horribly wrong. Sherlock decides to test the water by leaving a present at the flat.</p><p>This is written off that OTP Tumblr prompt with the cake photo. You know the one. If you don't your innocent eyes are going to be violated if you click on the link or chapter two. The reason this is mature is because of the subject matter (read: joke). I could probably get away with T but...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Story - The Words Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> I actually edited this one. I took out all the plot and all the smut and left all the feels. I also decided that commas were unnecessary. It's mostly train of thought so I thought I'd have some fun with the writing style. Since I have no beta or britpicker I had no one to tell me no. :)
> 
> Everyone's probably OOC and this story is not Many Happy Returns compliant.

"I'm going to kill him." I haven't decided how yet... But it will be painful. I don't think I've EVER been this angry. _EVER_.

"C'mon, John! That was, like, the best thing I've ever seen in my life." Harry was clearly drunk.

The amount of laughter in response to that comment was unacceptable.

"Sod this! I'm going to go kill him." I went to storm off but Lestrade caught me.

"John, you don't know where he is."

I huffed.

Greg continued being reasonable and giving me alcohol. He had me mostly calmed down by the time the cake was gone. My buddies from Afghanistan and a surprising amount of the others present had _actually eaten it_.

"Tell us the story!" One of the guys I would never speak to again yelled.

Oh, God. I could either tell them the truth, which was horrible and embarrassing and stupid and just. _So_. Sherlock. That it was painful. Or, I could say no and have them all assume we were together. I didn't know which was worse. I couldn't make anything up because what reasonable explanation could anyone ever come up with?

There was none.

Nothing could explain this.

Maybe, maybe if I'd pretended it was a joke. A prank. But, no. I'm a bloody idiot.

"Oh, no! I don't want to hear this!" Mrs. Hudson to the rescue.

"The story is: Sherlock is an idiot. No, there was no sex involved. Don't even think it." Because I was thinking it when the non-sex specimen was acquired. (And _no one_ would _ever_ know that. _Ever_.) No, deposited. It was acquired without my knowledge or permission later. 

There was a chorus of boos and hisses. "How'd-" An ex-friend cut off the word at my glare. "-it get... you know. Where'd it come from then?"

"Oh, dear! Really now!" Mrs. Hudson again.

"I really, _really_ don't want to know." I had my suspicions and the conversation Sherlock and I had as well as my search after pretty much confirmed them. But, it was never stated outright.

" _WHO'S_ is it is the real question!" Harry.

I'm never speaking to her again.

"YEAH!" Everyone agreed, loudly.

I was done. Just. Done. "Out." My voice was low and didn't waver a bit.

Mrs. Hudson, Molly and a few of the blokes who knew me well nearly sprinted for the door. Everyone else went quiet.

I raised my arm and pointed to the door.

Harry tried to hunch down and sneak out.

"Not you Harry." I growled and she froze.

"One... Two..." I counted.

Greg took control. "Come on now everyone, you heard him! Party's over! Go on, get!"

The room emptied and I just glared at my sister.

She looked like my glare was causing her physical pain. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry-"

I cut her off. "You will be." I promised.

Living with Sherlock is kind of like living in Hell. You open the microwave and there's a human kidney that was abandoned when he got distracted last night. You open the fridge and there's a human head on a plate that is doing absolutely nothing to stop the blood from dripping onto the lettuce. There are a lot of random explosions at random times of the day and night. There's a lot of him ordering you to do anything he can't be bothered with like taking his mobile out of his breast pocket. You'll come home and there'll be singe marks on the counter or gouges in the table or small appliances will be recently doused and there'll be the smell of smoke in the air. You'll be walking down the street and a black car will pull up and women who are apparently writing novels on their blackberries will basically abduct you because your flatmate's brother wants something. Sometime's you'll take a sip of juice and spew it across the floor because he's experimented on it and forgotten to label it as per the complicated set of rules agreed upon the first time this happened. There's a lot of shouting and whingeing and fighting and dramatic exits. There's no such thing as personal space or privacy. You pay all the bills, do all the shopping and basically all the adulting because he's a six year old boy in a body that sometimes looks twenty and other times looks thirty-five.

There are so many other things I could list but the biggest problem of living with Sherlock is that he's _really_ hot. And you're not gay. You're not. It doesn't matter that the first time you met him you totally hit on him and will never ever admit it. Ever. Because there's just something about him and you don't know what it is and you feel a deep seated _need_ to find out. So you tell yourself that you're not gay and that one guy and the other bloke don't count and you tell everyone else who won't listen because the way you catch yourself looking at him when he does something brilliant is embarrassing and if you can catch yourself eye-fucking him it's got to be painful for everyone else. Especially when he's just there, walking around in _nothing_ but a sheet or in a shirt that's so tight you swear the buttons are going to pop off any moment. With his cheekbones and curls and neck and fingers and tallness and voice and he just peers over your shoulder and you could just turn your head and latch onto his neck or ear and you just breathe in and...

Fuck.

Harry is staring at me and I have no idea how long I've been gone or if she can see the problem in my trousers. I'm guessing she can by the look on her face. But, that's just a guess and no matter how uncomfortable I am right now I'm not going to adjust because that would be proof.

"Right." I controlled my thoughts by going into Captain Mode. Sherlock had some truly disgusting things in the fridge and Mrs. Hudson wasn't a housekeeper even though she acted like it on occasion. The loo hadn't been scrubbed in a while. I compiled a list of chores in my head.

She winced. "I'm so sorry." She squeaked in the smallest voice I've ever wrung from her.

"No." There was no excuse. Because Harry knew. She knew I was completely head over heels in love with him from our first taxi ride and it got worse every. _Fucking._ Day. Hour... Minute... Second. And I was rejected soundly and there was no point to trying again because he basically said he was asexual (or gay and not into me with the work line being an excuse). Because if the most observant man I'd ever met couldn't see what _literally_ everyone else could then I'll eat his next batch of thumbs. He saw and he wasn't interested and I wasn't going to do something stupid and risk our friendship for nothing. Maybe I'm too stupid. Irene Adler seemed to get a response out of him.

"I'm really sorry John." Harry said with such pity I wanted to vomit.

"Just..." All the anger was gone. It had been replaced with heartache and longing and depression. I sighed. "Just go Harry."

She bit her lip and after a second nodded and walked away.

I went upstairs and fell on my bed. I was buggered and it was only seven. I wished Sherlock was home.

You'd think that I'd have no reason to stay. That nothing could possibly be worth all that.

But it was.

Because living with Sherlock was kind of like being in heaven. The colours were brighter. The entire city seemed more alive. People were interesting. The impossible happened on many days and on the others the most mundane things were exciting. Because when I had a nightmare I woke up to violin music and I knew Sherlock knew and he was playing for me. He was such an _arsehole_ sometimes but he almost never meant to be (assuming you hadn't been one first). Half the time he honestly thought he was complimenting me or helping me or other people. Cabs appeared out of thin air at three am in the middle of nowhere. ASBOs randomly disappeared as if they'd never existed. He took one look at me and determined how to fix my limp. Then, he went and did it. And life was running down alleyways after a Belstaff wearing idiot who was chasing a murderer without a single thought to his safety. Or to traffic. Conversations were never, ever boring. He knew such random things and others he knew absolutely nothing about.

He listened to me when it was important. We'd have long discussions about timing for celebrating a fantastic murder. Every time he was confused by someone's reaction he'd turn to me with the most helpless look on his face and I'd explain using one word from our previous conversations and he'd get this look on his face. He trusted me. He trusted me and he didn't trust anyone else enough to talk to them about anything. He liked Molly well enough. I tried to explain it to her when I caught her alone after the Jim from I.T. incident. Sherlock honestly thought he was doing her a favour. He was trying to save her from wasting time and getting her heart broken and he was such a show off he did it in the most dramatic way possible because that's how he is. I don't know if she listened at all and the glare I received prevented me from ever broaching the subject of Sherlock with her ever again.

And my days were filled with friendship and excitement and _laughter_. Before Sherlock I couldn't remember the last time I laughed and I was certainly a child the last time I giggled. I was happy. I was happy and accepted. I didn't have to play a part. I didn't have to act mature or hide my temper or do anything I didn't want to do. I wanted to pay the bills (as long as some cash was provided on his end) and stock the fridge and remind him to eat and bring him tea. Because he was the most amazing person I'd ever met in my life or would ever meet ever and I knew this for a fact. And when I was with him I was alive in a way I'd never imagined possible. 

I crawled onto my bed and smacked the back of my head against my headboard repeatedly. Eventually I felt a bruise and I sighed. I looked over to my nightstand wondering if I had enough attention span to read and I saw the box of tissues I bought after I gave up the idea of ever having a girlfriend.

And I wanted to kill him.

\----

He was doing another experiment and I'd asked, because it was the polite thing to do (and, sometimes, he'd actually explain and I'd actually understand and I'd get to help), and he responded with a grunt that meant he was focused and that I wouldn't understand but that he'd heard me.

I acknowledged his grunt with an, "Ah." that meant I understood what he said and went to start the kettle.

And, just when I was reaching for the biscuits, the kettle started spewing black smoke and my eyes started watering. I was coughing and sputtering and trying to see and Sherlock breezed past me and unplugged the kettle and started opening windows whilst berating me for ruining one of his experiments.

I ignored him because I already had my half of the argument ready and once I could breathe and see I'd win. We had a rule about the kettle: No experiments in the kettle. The kettle was for water and that's it. Nothing else. He knew this rule. I knew he knew this rule. I saw a pile of tissues on the table and grabbed one without thinking to wipe my eyes.

Sherlock had his back turned so he couldn't try to stop me. I was an idiot for even doing this. It was on the table. It was not in a box. It was clearly for use or had been recently used in an experiment.

I cursed loudly at the sting in my eye and demanded Sherlock tell me what chemical I'd just blinded myself with and what to do. He told me to rinse my eye thoroughly with water and I did so while coming up with some very creative insults. Once I'd calmed down I demanded to know what I'd stuck in my eye and what its permanent effects were.

He said there'd be no lasting damage. It'd just be irritated for a little bit and he wouldn't say another word on the subject.

After trying to get the information from him several different ways, many of which involved threats, I just picked up the tissue to see if I could identify the substance.

I could.

While I was sleuthing Sherlock had gotten dressed and was fleeing the flat at top speed. I tried to chase him down and nearly had him but those damn long legs made it so I wouldn't even be able to keep up with him if I were back at the peak of my fitness.

Wondering what the answer to the question everyone would be asking each other until the end of time (unless they asked Sherlock... he'd probably explain then wonder why I was upset) was myself I went up to my room to look in my bin.

It was empty.

It shouldn't have been empty.

I was relieved, then stunned, then horrified, then furious.

It was a good thing I hadn't seen him because I wasn't sure how I could not punch him as hard as I could and the last time I'd punched him I'd pulled my punch and it'd left too much of a mark.

I'd felt guilty about that mark.

I was pretty sure I wouldn't feel any guilt this time.

\----

When the day of my party dawned I wondered what I'd do if he showed up at the party and I honestly didn't know. Some of the anger had subsided and I missed him after not seeing him for two days. But, I also knew him and I was worried he'd bring the incident up in front of the guests.

He accomplished that without ever showing his face.

Apparently he'd had an idea for an apology and forgotten about change in venue of my birthday party but not the fact that it was my birthday. I would have laughed and grumbled and complained and explained to him just how _wrong_ his apology method was had I found it first. But, I didn't.

Harry found it.

And she was already squiffy and thought it was the most amazing thing she'd ever seen in her life.

Which, to be fair, it probably was.

Unfortunately, all the other guests had heard her ridiculously loud exclamation of delight and decided they too needed to see what was in the box. The reactions they had were enough to pique my interest and pull me away from getting plates for the lovely cake Mrs. Hudson had made.

"What the FUCK is _THAT_?!" If it had been a contest in volume I would have won.

The situation was still salvageable at that point. My blush could have been explained by the sheer absurdity of the sentiment written in frosting.

When Harry read the note that was on the top of the box it all went tits up.

_John,_

_Happy birthday._

_Text me when I can come home and you won't kill me._

_-SH_

My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head and my mouth hung open and I was frozen for so long that guests were, after several flashes that I assumed were mobile cameras, cutting it up to eat it.

When I could move again I groaned, buried my burning face in my hands and said, "God, Sherlock. _That's_ how you apologize?" aloud instead of in my head. It was all over.

It was, quite possibly, the absolute worst thing I could have said.

\----

I sighed. With the guests gone and the cake gone (The wankers didn't save me a slice of Mrs. Hudson's. Noooooo... They decided I should have a slice of the other one.) and Sherlock gone I was alone on my birthday and I didn't like it. I could go down and open my gifts, but it would be more fun to have Sherlock deduce them all before I opened them.

The new bruise I'd just given myself got a beating before I gave up and pulled out my mobile.

_Come home, idiot. -JW_

*Ping.*

_Aren't you at your party? -SH_

_No, my party abruptly ended when my sister found your cake. -JW_

*Ping.*

_The venue change... I forgot. -SH_

_I noticed. -JW_

*Ping.*

_Will you kill me? -SH_

_Maybe. -JW_

I let him sweat for ten minutes before I got bored of thinking up ways to torture him when he came back.

_But not today. -JW_

I heard the front door open and his familiar footfall pattern coming up the stairs. He took them two at a time adjusted to avoid both squeaky steps. He was moving quickly, like he was excited.

*Chime.*

That was his text alert sound.

"John?" He called.

I wondered how long it'd take him to figure out where I was. It was an average of seven seconds.

He pattered around the flat like he was manic. "John?"

Interesting. It'd been ten seconds already.

His feet thundered back down the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!"

I listened to him barge into her flat and rolled my eyes. We'd all discussed knocking on closed doors to him before but when he was too excited he either forgot or didn't care.

"Mrs. Hudson, where's John?"

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

God, that man could be so loud sometimes. Other times he was like a cat. He'd snuck up behind me and startled me enough times that I'd threatened to make him wear a bell.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

More stomps, a door closing and he was back up the stairs. He'd either gone into cat mode or he wasn't moving.

"John?"

He paced a little. Still on the landing.

I realized he was scared to come up to my room.

Interesting. I didn't think it was possible for him to understand the idea of boundaries let alone enforce any. 

Three minutes two seconds. Well, he's totally shot his average to Hell. I wondered if he had any inkling that I tested him as well. (I knew he was experimenting with me because he'd left the file up on my laptop the last time he went five days without sleep and literally passed out. Fell right off his chair and scared the hell out of me. The file was entitled: John Experiments. The columns and rows were filled gibberish except for those that were clearly time notations. When he was coherent again he assured me that none of them were harmful and were all reflexes and mental acuity. I'd had to wait sixteen hours seven minutes for my answer. Two minutes shy of a new record. I pretended to be mad but really had no leg to stand on.)

*Ping.*

_Where are you? -SH_

He thundered up the stairs chasing the sound.

Four minutes three seconds. I noted it on the blank page of the paperback I used for this purpose and he peered through the door.

"John."

I glared at him.

He shuffled his feet and looked down. "Sorry."

He looked like a kicked puppy.

"I'm not even going to ask. But, I will say, writing on cake shouldn't include anything sexual."

His head popped back up so quickly I winced sympathetically for his neck.

"Please tell me you did that yourself and..." I didn't bother finishing because the answer was written all over his face.

"Yes, the bakery was not... pleasant when I went to pick up the order." He pouted. "They didn't say anything when I handed them the order form!"

Cue huffy eye-roll...

Yep.

I started giggling at the mental image of him fighting with a bakery over the words. I imagined him actually shouting the phrase at the baker from the front of a long queue and laughed so hard tears came to my eyes.

He started laughing too, whether at me or because he knew what I was thinking I'll never know.

Eventually I could breathe again and I got up. I patted his shoulder, glad that I was one of the few people who didn't cause him to wince when they touched him, "C'mon, idiot. Come help me open my presents."

"Help?"

"If you guess them all correctly you can have the last piece of cake. And, if you get any wrong-"

He snorted derisively. "I don't _guess_."

"...you have to clean the fridge _and_ loo."

"Fine. Fine." Sherlock agreed dismissively, assured of his prowess to keep him from chores. He bounced down the stairs, happy to be forgiven and excited to play this new game.

I smiled; either way it went I didn't have to do something I didn't want to and got to watch him be brilliant.

Plus, I had an ace up my sleeve: Mycroft had sent a wrapped box with a separate note describing the game. The note stated that it was, in no way, related to the gift therefore there was no reason to tell Sherlock about it.

My guess was that it contained a toilet brush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left everything to your imagination in the story. 
> 
> If you want to see if you got it right: [link Tumblr](http://lookartthat.tumblr.com/post/142932604953/otpprompts-imagine-person-a-giving-this-to) That link is NSFW!! 
> 
> If you don't want to link away I've embedded the image in the second chapter. You've been warned.
> 
> I don't own anything to do with Sherlock in any iteration. I don't make any money off this and the other basic disclaimer rambling.


	2. Picture - The Prompt Chapter

[link Tumblr](http://lookartthat.tumblr.com/post/142932604953/otpprompts-imagine-person-a-giving-this-to)

**Author's Note:**

> I left everything to your imagination in the story. 
> 
> If you want to see if you got it right: [link Tumblr](http://lookartthat.tumblr.com/post/142932604953/otpprompts-imagine-person-a-giving-this-to) That link is NSFW!! 
> 
> If you don't want to link away I've embedded the image in the second chapter. You've been warned.
> 
> I don't own anything to do with Sherlock in any iteration. I don't make any money off this and the other basic disclaimer rambling.


End file.
